


Echoes of the Past (warmth of the present)

by AngeNoir



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2851637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daemon's getting better, little by little, and most of that has to do with his daughter and Surreal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of the Past (warmth of the present)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladypoetess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypoetess/gifts).



> hope that this is okay!

She’s not… totally hopeless, is what he’s saying. She’s unskilled, clearly doesn’t think whores have skills, and isn’t ready for his help. But Tersa wants him to help her, and he could never, would never, deny Tersa anything.

He checks up on her intermittently, as best he can with his own slavery to the females Dorothea hands him over to. She’s learning art one day, and later the knife. He can see his cousin in her, which gave him pause, but Kartane lost Daemon’s love long ago. Now, he does the best he can by Surreal, and hopes that it is enough.

Times like these, though…

“This is pointless!” she snarled, throwing the book across the room. The tutor he had bought cringed, and before he realized he was ready to intervene he was there, grabbing her arm and holding her immobile.

She stood frozen in his grasp, barely breathing.

“Donal. Come back tomorrow,” he said quietly.

The scarred man nearly tripped in his haste to leave, falling over the chair and then the door closed very quietly behind him.

Shame filled Surreal’s eyes, but she tried to shove it away as she tried to shove him away. “I don’t need your tutors, and I don’t need your help!”

“If you want the best Red Moon House to take you in and do more with your life than giving your body away to any man with two coins to rub together, you will learn,” he said, voice whisper-soft. “Was your frustration at the material worth the fear you put in poor Donal? Hasn’t he been scarred enough?”

Surreal dropped her head, hair falling about her face, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about the physical scars that twisted his face and arm.

“What seems to be giving you trouble?” he asked, moving over to the book and gently picking it up before registering what was on the cover. When he saw the intricate scrawl, he sighed.

Surreal folded her arms. “When would I need to write? I know what I want to do with my life, and—”

“Writing is a useful skill to sell. There are other professions beyond whoring your body out. A person who can write is a person who can leave messages for others, who can pretend to be the highest-bred bitch in town. Handwriting skills are necessary to maintain the illusion of upper-class breeding, the type of breeding Red Moon Houses want to sell to clientele. Specifically, to the clientele you are most interested in. If, of course, your goals haven’t changed.”

“They haven’t,” she said, and her voice was sulky. Knowing he won, he didn’t press the point anymore and instead smoothed the pages of the book before closing it.

“Have you seen Tersa recently?” he asked, deliberately casual.

Surreal shook her head, black hair tucked behind her pointed ears. “No.”

“Ah. Well. Have you eaten supper?” he asked, moving to the tiny kitchen of the apartment.

Surreal licked her lips and moved to sit down at the table. “No. Are you going to cook for me? Even though you’re mad at me?”

He smiled slightly. “I’m not mad,” he replied, voice calm. “A little disappointed, but it’s understandable. Penmanship is frustrating and difficult. I hated having to learn.”

“You?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, and he settled in to tell her about his lessons as a child.

+++

“Are you going to cook? Daemon?”

Daemon blinked open his eyes to see Surreal standing in the doorway, child on her hip.

“Sorry to wake you. Only, you’ve been standing there a while, and I don’t think Mrs. Arcwright likes the invasion of her kitchen.”

Remembering where and _when_ he was, Daemon smiled at Surreal and their child. “Mrs. Arcwright already expressed her displeasure with me, but I wanted to make this small meal for the three of us. Our first Winsol together, and there will be plenty of other nights, with friends and families, that Mrs. Arcwright will cook for us.”

“Mmm. The only reason I’m not complaining is I remember how well you cook.” Surreal sat down at the table and smiled. “Will you tell me stories, too?”

He laughed, and if his heart still bled for his lost love, he could find contentment here, by the kitchen hearth, his daughter giggling in Surreal’s arms as they ate together, sharing small stories that didn’t hurt.


End file.
